


Two times Jim and Sherlock kissed under the mistletoe and one time they didn't

by jimmriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bipolar Jim Moriarty, Canonical Character Death, Christmas, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mistletoe, Sherlock hates Christmas and Jim is a little bit of an asshole, Well.... as fluffy as this ship can get honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:43:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5476655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimmriarty/pseuds/jimmriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Under the mistletoe you have to kiss."<br/>It's an answer so ordinary and obvious he wants to laugh for no reason. Other thoughts follow, simple and casual observations that almost seem out of place in a mind accustomed to complex and scientific reasoning.<br/>The first is that Jim's lips are soft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two times Jim and Sherlock kissed under the mistletoe and one time they didn't

There are only a bunch of days left until the twenty-five of December and Christmas is now everywhere, a bright cloud with the smell of cinnamon that covers the greyness and the smog of the city.

Sherlock hates it. He hates the Christmas carols that get stuck in his mind even if he tries to block them, children's voices that resonate within the walls of his mind palace; he hates humming them under his breath during a case and the half-smile on John's face when he recognizes the melody. He hates green and red sweaters, Christmas lights hung everywhere that deprive London of its individuality, covering with false happiness all those small details that make Sherlock feel home.

Sherlock keeps running, the sound of shoes on the street that is swallowed by the carols, until he almost trips over a child. He doesn't stop even to say he's sorry, the only word he utters is a curse hissed through his teeth, and he continues on his way, the angry voice of the mother soon fading and blending in a set of many others. He hasn't time for those things, for apologies and good manners. Not when there are lives in danger.

The life of a poor man taken from his home to be covered in Semtex – some, including Sherlock, would say that it's still a better fate than being forced to listen to "All I want for Christmas is you" in loop – is not the only thing at risk. If Sherlock is running for London despite having nearly two hours till the end of the countdown, is only for his pride, to prove himself (and Jim Moriarty) that he can beat his personal record and solve the murder an hour early.

He's turning into an alley when he sees him. He freezes. Behind him, John almost trips over him. Sherlock doesn't even notice him.

Jim Moriarty is there, just few feet away. He's under flashing lights that make his face a little softer and the smile on his lips more natural and genuine. He almost looks like an ordinary person, someone like many others, a man wrapped in a fine cashmere coat who is buying the last presents for friends and relatives.

Almost, because when Jim turns and their gazes meet, Moriarty returns the criminal mastermind with eyes like black stars and sharp tongue, the man who Sherlock has met at the pool.

James Moriarty is danger personified, the ticking before the explosion of a bomb. He's the set of chemicals that reach his synapses and trigger the "fight or flight" mechanism. He's the only person in the world capable of giving him the thrill he craves and has unsuccessfully looked for in drugs. He's the perfect nemesis.

Sherlock walks toward him with his heart beating faster than normal and the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile.

"Honey," Jim puts his hands in the pockets of his coat and looks up, on his face the smile of who holds the world in his fingers and has the answer to every question "Do you need a hand?"

"Please" Sherlock scoffs, taking another step forward. "You should rather think about yourself. The last cases were so simple... Don't tell me that Christmas made you stupid like everybody else."

If Jim is offended, he doesn't show it. Quite the opposite, the half-grin on his face becomes wider.

"I was busy, you have no idea how many people want to kill their loved ones during the holidays. Not that I can blame them, of course." He giggles. "I don't work for you, you know."

"I'm still your most important client, though."

Technically, he isn't a client. Sherlock has no problem to solve and doesn't pay Jim to commit a fraud to wallow in money for the rest of his life or to kill a someone he doesn't like. In reality, it's different. Even if Moriarty's actions are horrible and bring only death and destruction, Sherlock can't help but be grateful to the man who causes them.

He doesn't simply tolerate them as a necessary evil, like his brother Mycroft and the organizations he works with do. What he feels is gratitude in its literal sense, because without brilliant and apparently perfect crimes he would be still lying on the couch, a pout on his lips, a gun in his hand and in the chest a void so absolute to make him wonder _"what would happen if I stopped breathing and died here?"_

"Eh, I'm not so sure." Jim licks his lips without breaking eye contact. "Anyway, I'm planning something special for Christmas, so keep yourself free. These are just..." He raises his eyebrows in an arch and makes a gesture with his hand "Small gifts of the advent calendar. You know honey, foreplay is important."

"You won't expect me to thank you, won't you?"

"It would be nice, but I already know you don't have good manners."

They stay still for few seconds, looking into each other eyes as if in them they could find the answer to the most ancient question in the whole universe. Behind him, Sherlock can feel John growing impatient and bringing his hand to the gun hidden in the pocket of his jacket.

Jim decides to break that precarious balance.

"Sherl, look up."

For a moment, Sherlock does nothing. He just furrows his eyebrows and analyze Jim's face, looking for a detail that could reveal his intentions. Obviously, he can't find anything at all. It's irritating for a man accustomed to read his interlocutor and use what he observes to manipulate them.

_Jim said that only to tease him? Or is it part of a bigger plan that ends with a gun to his temple? No, they are in public, not to mention that John has his back, it would be risky and unnecessary. Also it would be too simple. Too easy. Almost... Vulgar._

For a moment, Sherlock is ashamed of having thought something like that.

He decides to look up.

Hung from the Christmas lights right over their head, there is a sprig of mistletoe. _Viscum album._ Strap-shaped leathery leaves in opposite pairs, yellow-white berries.

He doesn't understand.

_Is it a clue to the next crime? The berries of mistletoe are poisonous, ingestion can lead to death. Moriarty wants to use an extract as poison? No, he would never have given such a direct and important clue. Is then a more abstract suggestion, some sort of metaphor? Mistletoe is a parasite, it can also have behaviours of hyperparasitism and autoparasitism. Or maybe it could be something related to the many legends and traditions surrounding the plant..._

Sherlock tightens his lips in a line, looking in his mind palace for all the information he has eliminated since he labelled them as "simple fantasy stories". He knows he has read something about mistletoe in Norse and Celtic mythology and in Aeneid, but he can't remember exactly what.

He grinds his teeth. If he were home he would walk back and forth across the living room, his steps so heavy to attract Ms. Hudson's complaints. He's not at 221b, though. He's in front of Moriarty, the most dangerous criminal mind of the century, which in all likelihood is watching him with a glint in his eyes, the same one of a predator who is enjoying seeing his mutilated prey trying to escape without success. The thought irritates him. His jaw tightens.

He just needs time, he keeps repeating himself, it's just a matter of minutes and he will be able to unravel that enigma, he says, drumming the fingers of his left hand on the leg, irritation getting bigger and bigger until _oh- Oh._

Every thought dissolves into thin air as soon as he feels Jim's fingers on his skin. It's a touch so light and delicate that for a moment he believes he has only imagined it. The fingertips caress slowly his wrist.

_Jim Moriarty has cold but soft hands._

It's a simple and somehow innocent thought that takes place of all the complicated reasoning. It's a detail that makes Jim human. It gives Sherlock an apparently insignificant information that the detective decides however to keep in that room in his mind palace that is reserved only for James Moriarty.

He looks down to silently ask the reasoning behind that gesture but, before he can truly realize it, Jim grabs his scarf with his other hand and pulls him down so their lips meet. He's kissing him.

His mind becomes completely white. Thoughts slips through his fingers like sand, no matter how much Sherlock tries to keep them close to him, they are gone, leaving in his head an emptiness so intense and annihilating that is even better than the drug. Jim's mouth presses on his more insistently. Sherlock doesn't react.

After a second or two, the first glimmer.

_"Under the mistletoe you have to kiss."_

It's an answer so ordinary and obvious he wants to laugh for no reason. Other thoughts follow, simple and casual observations that almost seem out of place in a mind accustomed to complex and scientific reasoning.

The first is that Jim's lips are soft.

The second is that they are flavourless. The only thing Sherlock can feel is the faint aroma of a lip balm and it's strange, because he has always imagined a completely different range of tastes. Blood, gunpowder, alcohol, nicotine. Violent, somehow dark, flavours for an old-fashioned villain, for a completely black person with no shades at all. Maybe he should reconsider the image he has of Moriarty. He shouldn't take anything for granted when it comes to him.

The third is that he has too little information. He wants more.

Without thinking, he parts his lips.

He puts his hand on Jim's nape, fingers clenching at his hair just to make it messy and free it from the position induced by the gel. Jim's breath hitches. Sherlock raises the corner of his lips in a smile and pushes more towards him, the sweet taste of satisfaction that gets mixed with the one of the criminal's mouth when the kiss gets deeper.

One arm holds Sherlock's waist, making their coats brush together. Jim smiles and the vibrant sound of the hint of a laughter is stifled by their mouths and maybe that's the exact moment when Sherlock realizes he wants to tear him to pieces. To destroy him, bite him until he gets to the hidden side of his persona, feel the taste of blood and raw flesh on his lips. To get to the heart of his entire being.

When Sherlock bites him on the lower lip, Jim moans.

Before he could give him a second one, however, Jim suddenly pulls back and breaks any physical contact.

The contrast with the cold air of December is so violent that hurts. It makes Sherlock feel a lack that he never thought he would feel.

"See you soon."

Jim talks as if nothing happened, as if his pupils aren't dilated and his entire body doesn't want to repeat the experience. In the grin on his reddened lips there is an evident desire to leave him unsatisfied. Sherlock wants to grab him and bring him close again but, before he could do anything, Jim moves away from his reach. He leaves without saying another word and all Sherlock can do is stand still and look at his dark coat until it becomes a black spot among many others.

"Moriarty..." When Sherlock turns to look at John, the doctor is clearly shaken. Understandable, of course, but also ridiculous and exaggerated. He isn't the one who has been kissed (and has returned the gesture). "Moriarty just kissed you."

Sherlock has to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

"What a keen sense of observation, John."

"It's disgusting. I didn't think he could go that far".

He either admits aloud that he enjoyed kissing Jim or lies and agrees with John. Both alternatives sucks, so Sherlock doesn't say anything and keeps running like nothing happened, even if on his lips he can still feel Jim's touch. He doesn't think he can forget it anytime soon.

It's only after a while that comes to his mind.

_"The Druids considered mistletoe a witness of the truce between of two enemies, who, meeting under it, laid down their arms and sanctioned the break from hostilities with a kiss."_

_*****_

The following year, Sherlock still hates Christmas.

He hates it even if the flat is decorated with garlands and lights, even if he has to wear some stupid reindeer antlers, even if there is a Christmas tree in the corner of the living room – the only things that allow the detective to bear the view of it are the not-appropriate decorations: small skulls covered in red paint are so far from the spirit of Christmas that Sherlock's lips can't help but open in a smile.

Yet, being in such a festive house is not that strange. Not if it's compared to a Jim Moriarty who is drinking a cup of hot chocolate and is wearing one of those ugly sweaters that can only be worn in December. The one he has today has "Jingle My Bells" written on it. Always classy, James.

It's difficult to say exactly _when_ their relationship evolved into something more and somehow domestic.

Maybe it was that one time Sherlock broke into one of Jim's flats only to be found inside, sprawled on the couch with a pleased look on his face that wanted to say "Look at me, I was so clever, I'm always one step ahead of you." Look that was completely ignored by Jim, who walked immediately towards his computer without saying a single word. The situation then degenerated into desperate attempts to get attention (like unplugging the computer), bickering like five years old and, eventually, moans.

Or maybe it was when Jim asked him to sleep together after having sex. He didn't use words, of course. He simply looked at him from below with eyes a little too large and dark, squeezing gently his wrist with his fingers. Sherlock remembers how his heart missed a beat. He remembers asking himself if Jim noticed it.

That night, neither of them slept, too busy realizing the situation and understanding the importance of the gesture, the implicit trust that is required to sleep next to the person who has promised to destroy you.

In any case, it doesn't matter when it started. What truly is important is _what_ their relationship has become.

They aren't boyfriends, they both dislike the word itself and everything couples do. Not to mention that they keep putting each other in life and death situations, which is something that certainly isn't written in the manual of the perfect boyfriend.

At the same time, however, the word "enemies" is no longer enough. It describes only a small part of their relationship, the most superficial, the one that is evident even in the eyes of those who Jim and Sherlock call ordinary.

Their relationship is something more. It's hours spent in complete silence knowing that in the world someone like you exist and you aren't alone anymore. It's provocations lingering on lips, sharp kisses, hands that desperately try to recreate a connection as meaningful as the one between their minds. It's unique and new, deep without falling in friendship and conventional love and it's impossible to describe it, because human language hasn't yet a word for that. Probably it never will.

"Is all this mistletoe even necessary?" Jim raises his eyes from the astronomy book in his hands and places his mug – dark blue, decorated with a representation of the solar system – on the coffee table. On his lips there is an amused smile that makes Sherlock roll his eyes. "You don't have to use this nonsense if you want to kiss me."

"What can I say, I love traditions." Jim simply answers, getting up from the couch and approaching Sherlock. In his hands he's clutching a small sprig of mistletoe. He raises his arm, making it hovering above their heads. "Especially if they bother you."

"At least don't propose a truce." The end of the sentence is almost incomprehensible, muffled by their lips touching. It's a gentle and light kiss, chaste, without ulterior motives. Sherlock finds himself liking it a little too much. "Don't get boring and domestic, Jim."

"I honestly can't imagine a worse torture than becoming a sweet sweet couple that walks hand in hand and spends the nights watching television while cuddling together on the couch. I would kill you without a second thought if we ended up like that."

It's a sick promise, wrong from every point of view, that kind of statement that should make him want to end any type of interaction with the person who said. And yet, Sherlock finds it incredibly logical. Even reasonable.

"Good."

Jim smiles, puts both hands on Sherlock's hips. He caresses the belt loops and puts his fingers into them, looking at him from the bottom with a mischievous and somehow indecent expression that makes his intentions clear even to someone like Sherlock.

"Not to mention that..." He breaks eye contact to place his lips on his neck, just below the ear. "I find really hot when you point a gun at me."

"In bed or during a case?"

Jim's laugh echoes in every cell of his epidermis. It gives Sherlock goose bumps.

"Both."

_*****_

Three years before, Sherlock stopped paying any attention to Christmas.

Before going back to London, he couldn't even recognize the festive period. After all, it was impossible to keep track of the time when the days were identical, when for security reasons he couldn't leave the house for weeks and the voice in his head became every minute more alien and distant, closer to the false identity Mycroft had forced him to assume than to his own persona.

Not being "Sherlock Holmes" had its bright side, though.

It was easier not to focus on his own problems and think only about the mission, because there wasn't any time to cry when he had to dismantle Moriarty's empire and a single distraction could lead to a bullet between his eyes.

However, once the immediate danger was avoided, blocking unwanted thoughts became difficult again.

There were nights when he couldn't remove the thoughts of John and Ms. Hudson from his mind, nights when the silhouette of the bedroom resembled the one of 221b, the house where he had lived for years, the first place where he felt truly accepted. Nights when breathing seemed impossible and Sherlock found himself gasping and sweating in a tangle of sheets that suddenly seemed to have become the tightest of ropes. Nights when he decided to not giving a damn about Mycroft's rules and went out without precautions, a cigarette between his lips and in the legs the desire to walk without a specific purpose, just to feel in his body the same disorientation of his mind.

They weren't the worst moments. He knew that, sooner or later, he would have returned back to London – back _home_ -, all he had to do was wait and do his job in the meanwhile. No, the worst moments were the ones when he relived Jim's suicide behind his closed eyes.

_A veil of tears to cover the usually dark eyes, that day almost golden because of the sunlight. His voice breaking. Their fingers intertwined, in a gesture similar to those that took place behind closed doors, away from that world and those people who could never understand them. The barrel of the gun gleaming in the sun, the glint disappearing immediately into Jim's mouth. The shot. Blood and brains of the most intelligent man he had ever known scattered on the concrete. Empty and lifeless eyes. Smile stuck on lips now cold._

He could have stopped him. He could have grabbed him by the wrist, making the trajectory of the bullet change, shooting upwards, away from them. He should have noticed Jim's depression before. He was bipolar.

"Sherlock?" John's voice brutally pulls him away from his thoughts and Sherlock raises slightly his head to meet his gaze. His blue eyes are veiled by a barely concealed concern that he doesn't know how to express in words, because even if Sherlock is a "machine", John doesn't know how to deal with his emotions as well. "Is everything alright?"

_No, it's not fine. I lost the only person capable of understand me, the one who proved to be a true match and who maybe I loved. I lost him and I will never have him back and now I'm here, obligated to stay at my parents' house for Christmas because you all fear I could fall back into drugs. You are wrong. What I really want is a knife hold to my throat, adrenaline flowing in my blood, busy mind and death behind my shoulders._

"Sure. I was just thinking."

John doesn't do anything and stays still, clearly uncomfortable. He doesn't believe him, of course, but at the same time he doesn't really want to go deeper in the conversation, because he has always had trouble understanding (and accepting) the relationship between him and Jim Moriarty. Moreover, John's way of solving problems has always been ignoring everything and keep going. In no other way he could have forgiven Mary. Or Sherlock himself, the detective thinks.

"Umh, okay." He stays silent for a few seconds, unsure on what to do. Sherlock already knows what he will decide. "If you want to eat, dinner is ready. I just came here to tell you that."

Sherlock looks away. It's his way of saying that the conversation is over.

"Okay."

 


End file.
